


How To Build a Barricade

by francefrancerevolution



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: I don't know what I'm doing, M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-24
Updated: 2013-06-24
Packaged: 2017-12-16 01:17:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/856110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/francefrancerevolution/pseuds/francefrancerevolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You know that you’re going to die today. Because, if you weren’t going to die, you wouldn’t let yourself admit what you’re thinking— that the sunlight catches his hair, and you want to be those streaks of light, running through his curls.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How To Build a Barricade

**Author's Note:**

> I just made this account yesterday, and I'm working on some longer stuff at the moment, but I felt like I needed to post something, just to get used to being here and introduce myself. So here, have something I wrote in math class one day while feeling particulary edgy.
> 
> (update: I finally figured out how to make paragraphs and make this cleaner looking, yayy!)

You will need chairs. Maybe tables too, and desks, and you think that empty coffins might work. Just check to make sure that they’re really empty. When you pull open the lid and peek inside, you will be relieved— more wood to the barricade— but you’ll have seen your own shadow at the empty bottom of the coffin, and the chills will not go away.

But you need to get that shaking out of your voice. Swallow it. And when you do speak, they’ll mistake that slight trembling for the hope for the future they always seem to find in your eyes, even when it’s not really there. In their eyes, you see the same shadows that you saw at the bottom of the coffin.

They will want to help you, of course. They will point at the bags under your eyes and laugh at how you’ve flattened your curls by tugging anxiously at your hair.  
Are you okay?(say yes!) and yes, you’re sure, and when he lays his hand on your shoulder, pretend that you don’t feel warmth blossoming in your veins.

(Remember: it’s not a person you fight for, it’s the people.)

You tell him you’re fine. You’ll tell him to stop worrying. You’ll hate the snap in your voice and you’ll watch him leave.

You’ll spend your night thinking about it. And you’ll decide to stop thinking about it. About him. But it won’t do any good, because you’ll toss all night, and in the morning, he’ll be the one who notices that the bags under your eyes have gotten worse, and he’ll buy you coffee.

At this point, you won’t have eaten in two days, and the black coffee will twist your stomach. Try not to throw it up.

Your life is all about trying at this point. Try not to be sick. Try not to feel the pounding in your chest. Try not to watch the sunrise and wonder if it will be your last.

But it will be your last sunrise, and you know this.

You’ve always known this. (You want to watch the sunrise, don’t you, and savor the feeling of the light sprinkling across your face?)

He’ll ask if you want to go out and watch the sun come up. (And you do, you do.) But no, you have things to do. You’ll have to find chairs and give a speech, and you know you should write a letter to your mother, but you won’t.

So many things. So he’ll tell you to suit yourself, and he’ll go to the window to watch without you.

You know that you’re going to die today. Because, if you weren’t going to die, you wouldn’t let yourself admit what you’re thinking— that the sunlight catches his hair, and you want to be those streaks of light, running through his curls.

And you’ll think oh hell and you’ll go to the window and watch over his shoulder as the sun lazily slips into the sky. You’ll notice that the sun looks redder than usual.

Again, he’ll ask you if you’re okay. And you’ll say yes, because his hand keeps brushing yours, and you’ve never felt more okay in your life.

The sun will come up faster than you want it to.

It’s time, then. You’ll look back at the chairs when you always sat, and imagine yourself as a ghost, hissing in the ears of those who never believed in you.

The last step now.

You’ll imagine it all flashing before your eyes. The shadows and the creaky chairs and the smell of coffee and alcohol. His dark curls illuminated by the sunrise.  
This is what you’ll remember in your last moments.

You’ll be staring at the guns and the blood on the walls, and suddenly he’ll be there, touching your shoulder, whispering your name, and when he’s beside you, the blast of fire looks like the rising sun, and everything is beautiful.


End file.
